Episode 25: Peri Peri Quite Contrary

Episode 25: Peri Peri Quite Contrary

Mimi Schmir, one of the writers from "Grey's Anatomy"

Posted to Hot Flashes by Mimi Schmir on Sun, 11/08/2009 - 8:24am

So here's the thing about being "peri-menopausal," (or as I like to call it, "PM.") It makes you cranky. (*Note: I was told by my ob-gyn that since I still occasionally get my period, I am not actually in full blown menopause. I ask her what constitutes "full blown" and she tells me that I will know it when I feel it which frankly, makes me even crankier than I am.) Apparently, PM can make you a lot of things (hungry, tired, bored by sex, totally horny) but it can also turn you into a monster. I have seen this in myself and I have seen it in my girlfriends and I have seen it in my neighbor whose husband comes home from work, finds her bawling and screams, "Why can't you just be happy?!" Some of us snap at our children. Many of us rail at our significant others. A few of us yell at our boob-enhanced friends who stood by us when our husbands brought home hookers. That's where I come in.

I yelled at Annabelle. We were talking about nothing. That's the way I remember it, anyway, but nothing quickly turned into something more. I think the argument was about this pool party she wanted us to plan and I may have said something like, "I'm not in a pool party mood," which didn't go over very well. (Did I ever mention I'm afraid to swim? Not the best phobia for living on the home turf of Gidget and the Beach Boys.) Partnerships are never easy, even under the best of circumstances (see: marriage) and although ours has been a great one for many years we are, like in a marriage, two different people. Annabelle needs to "maintain connections" and "have friends" for starters and well, blame it on the PM, but there are days when I kind of hate everybody that has the misfortune to come my way. (Except for Mr. Handsome and Roo. Even when I try — when, for instance, they put chewing gum in my hair and think it's as funny as a "Tom and Jerry" cartoon, even then I can't stay angry for long.)

So when I said, "No," to the pool party it suddenly felt like we were getting a divorce in a really horrible way. There was crying and yelling and Annabelle said she couldn't do it without me (which isn't true, she just doesn't like to be left alone) and I told her I had enough problems in my life right now without our relationship being just one more. Well, you can imagine how that sounded. The next thing you know we're both telling each other we never want to see the other one again. That's when Lucy called. (For those of you who may have forgotten, Lucy, aka The Concubine, is the woman who fucks my husband when he's not cheating on her with whores who take Visa, Mastercard AND Amex. Probably Diner's Club, too. What the hell is Diner's Club, by the way? Is it about restaurants, or is it about clubs? Or is it about whipping out a card that only you and two British types in Bombay carry, that hasn't meant anything to anybody in forty years?)

"As always, Lucy, your timing is impeccable," I say, picking up the phone. "What does that mean?" she asks me, timidly (even though we made an uneasy peace she's still a bunny rabbit around me.) "What do you want?" I say, (cranky) as I watch Annabelle grab her Balenciaga bag (we both got them, on sale) and flounce angrily out the door. (She almost slams it shut, then thinks better of it when she realizes that there's a good chance the neighbors — always up for gossip — might actually see she's not wearing any makeup and her Juicy sweats are torn.)

"Okay, this might sound crazy," says the Concubine — and here I interrupt. "You're not asking me for a donation to Save the Animals, Save the World, are you?" I ask her (the fundraiser is next week and I'm already stuck sitting at the table of some Romanian guy from Mr. Handsome's school who prints like, all the money for the entire country of Romania and is insanely rich, equally distasteful and who I know will keep asking if I have anyone waiting for me at home. "No, I assumed you were going already," she says, "But now that you bring it up, Panda Partners for Equality needs baby bottles, just not the toxic plastic kind..." "Forget it," I snap, "What do you want from me?" (I told you, I am the Queen of Cranky with a capital "C" today.)

"Oh, well...it may sound crazy but do you want to meet Christian Louboutin with me at Barney's tomorrow afternoon?" (In case you have forgotten, I will remind you that a number of weeks ago the Concubine reappeared in my life after a confrontation over the aforementioned shoe designer's shoes. It all turned out well, in my opinion, because I ended up the owner of said shoes, which say a resounding "fuck you" to pretty much everyone I need to say that to.)

"You're kidding, right?" I say, trying not to laugh, because even though I did fess up and tell the Concubine about Jeffrey's whores, it's not like we're still friends. (Up until a few minutes ago, I had Annabelle for that.) "No, I'm not," she says, a little breathless and I can hear it in her voice, like a crack addict about to use her stuff, she's desperate to get there. "I got a card in the mail," she says (it sounds like she's salivating.) "Louboutin's going to be on the first floor of Barney's tomorrow and he'll be signing shoes." Okay, now the concept of a shoe designer is a little odd in and of itself (all that time spent thinking about feet) but signing shoes that people walk around in? That's just plain weird. "Shoe signing is peculiar," I say out loud, and then, reconsidering, "You think a signed Louboutin is worth something?" "Oh, I'm sure," she gasps (she may be having an orgasm) did I mention they're previewing the new Fall Line?"

Well, I'm no dummy. The New Fall Line is something that could make me very happy. I may be cranky, and all PM, but I'm fully cognizant of that. The New Fall Line will have pumps and stilettos and flats (that no one but me with my bad back will buy) and it will say, "The rest of me may be cranky but my feet are ecstatically fabulous and fine." I realize that I have reached out to the Concubine and now she is returning the favor. Since Annabelle has deserted me in my time of crisis (and I say crisis because these days, in at least some small way, even the funny stuff is) I say, "You know what, Lucy? Let's go bee-atch some shoes."

So the next day, I get to Barney's around 3pm. I haven't eaten anything (it's habit, like the way I don't eat lunch if I'm trying on clothes, except that clearly doesn't come into play when the feet are involved. Or maybe it does...I don't know, we've already discussed that my shoe size has grown exponentially each time I gave birth, maybe too many lunches is a problem, too.) Anyhoo, I get there and of course, I am already cranky, because 1. I am in PM and 2. I am fucking starving. If you could eat shoes, I would be chowing down right now. But then I relax because I see all these lovely little men in penguin suits passing out glasses of champagne on silver trays and I grab a glass, and before I'm even done with that the same little men are pushing chocolate covered strawberries my way.

That's when I see the line. Luckily, I am on my second glass of bubbly and have also managed to scarf a couple of chocolate truffles (which are a lovely compliment to the strawberries, if I may say.) But the line — it is unbelievable. It crosses the entire shoe department, then winds around, and around, and around, like intestines, like the line for Space Mountain at Disneyland, like what I imagine it will be like to try and get a ticket for the opening weekend Saturday matinee of the new Indiana Jones. I swallow the truffle that is in my mouth without even chewing. Thank God for the champagne, because for a moment I am that choking victim that nobody knows how to save (all the shoe shoppers clearly forgot to relearn the Heimlich after taking that child safety Health at Home class when their babies were born — admittedly, I'm guilty of that too.) So there I am, in line, waiting to meet the famed shoe designer Christian Louboutin (who by the way, is surrounded by security guards like, I don't know, they are afraid the crazed shoe buyers will rush him) and I am choking on a chocolate truffle before I even have a chance to have him sign my own pair of newly purchased, fuckable shoes.

"Drink this!" I hear, out of nowhere, as I am coughing and sputtering and no one is moving a hand to help me (all the women are terrified of losing their place in line.) "Drink this!" (More firmly this time, like they are talking to a stupid child) and as I gulp the champagne down I realize Lucy is there, all done up in her shoe buying finery and like an over-dressed Mary Poppins she has come to my aid.

"Gee...thanks!" I sputter, as I finally choke the truffle down. "You have to be careful, Esme," she says, wiping the front of my dress because of course some of the champagne has spilled. "Oh, shit," I say, "Mr. Louboutin won't be too impressed with my appearance now," and she laughs and says, "He'll only care about your feet, trust me. Did you wear the shoes?" And I did, but then I realize, "Crap, do you think we were supposed to buy shoes, today?!" I ask her, in a total panic because I now see that the shoe department is crowded with anxiety-stricken women who are trying to do just that. "I did," says Lucy, like she's really saying, "What kind of idiot do you think I am?" "But the line's too long!" I wail. "I'll never get to him before the store closes if I try to buy something now." "Don't worry, honey," says the Concubine, trying to appease me, but at this point, I'm not listening to her anymore. I yank on the arm of a salesperson who is running by with eight boxes of shoes in her skinny arms. "Hey," I whisper, "Give me one of those boxes." "I'm sorry, Ma'am," she says, breathlessly, like she has been running a marathon in the boiling hot sun for at least five hours, "But I'm helping someone else right now." "Why don't you just help me," I snap, and start rustling in my purse, like I could slip her a twenty and this whole problem would just be whisked away. "Excuse me?" says the startled sales girl. "Listen," I whisper, "Just give me a box of those shoes, no harm, no foul." She stares at me, horrified. "These are size six, Ma'am. What size are you?"

Well, shoe size is so not the issue here. The issue is...well, getting Mr. Louboutin to sign a pair of newly purchased shoes, so I just kind of, well...snatch one of the boxes out of her arms. As you might imagine, me grabbing the shoe box doesn't go over very well. For starters, the whole pile of boxes tumbles to the floor. "What are you doing, E?" says the Concubine, while at the same time trying really hard to pretend she's not with me. "I'm just buying a pair of shoes," I say, breathlessly, trying to pull my credit card out of my purse. "They're not even your size, Ma'am," snaps the salesgirl, "Someone else could actually wear them."

That did it. I thought I would strangle her for that remark - I mean, what right did this puny shoe seller (who by the way, had stuffed her own fat feet into heels that clearly didn't fit her just for this momentous occasion) - what right did she have to keep me from meeting the master. (Mr. Louboutin, during all of this, is still signing away. He is actually taking a really long time to talk to people, which endears him to me even more.) "I don't care about wearing them," I say, "I just want them signed!" and I guess maybe I am yelling at this point because that's when I realize the security guards have their hands on my arm.

Hmmm. Suddenly, I am in a predicament, here. All the shoe buyers are staring at me. I am ruining their shoe signing day, it seems, and all the champagne and truffles in the world aren't going to eradicate that. "Get her out of here," I hear someone say and I realize that I have managed to attract the attention of the manger who up until now has been flirting with Mr. Louboutin shamelessly. (Something that granted, I would have liked to have the chance to do. I'm not even sure if he's straight or gay but in the land of shoe-dom, does that even matter?)

"You have no right to remove me from Barneys!" I call out but even as I'm yelling I realize the security guards are whisking me across the floor. ("Whisking," is a strange thing, by the way. It is actually kind of like being a broom, I guess that's where it comes from, because I can feel my feet kind of sweeping. Which is no joke in a pair of stilettos.) The Concubine looks at me, helplessly. I realize, horrified, that rather than coming to my defense, she doesn't want to lose her place in line. "Sorry, " she calls out, sheepishly... "But he's never come to sign shoes before." "You're a traitor!" I yell out, but even in the moment I realize how lame this sounds because her treacherous behavior goes way farther back than shoes. "I'm sorry," she wails, "I'll say hello to Mr. L for you!"

I never got to meet Mr. L, needless to say. Once security had me outside, they gave me some speech about never shopping here again (which I'm obviously going to ignore) and then they too, hightailed it away. So I'm hobbling along, thinking about Mr. L chatting about his red-soled genius with his fans and suddenly, my heel breaks in two. Shit. I'm standing there in the street, with one foot in a broken Louboutin, the other in the gutter and cranky doesn't begin to describe it. SHIT. This was the pair that was supposed to walk me into my future, remember? Suddenly, my future seems kind of lonely and grim. I mean, broken shoes are symbolic of something in my book and that something ain't good.

I sigh, and start to hobble towards the parking garage, thinking maybe I can get someone to call me a cab. (Unheard of in L.A., but then, I am full of surprises.) "Get a grip, Esme," I mumble to myself. And then I hear something. "Esme, Esme!" I turn around. It's the Concubine, and she's dashing out of the store with a bag in her hands. It's a black bag, a Barneys bag and inside it is a box of shoes. "What do you want?" I growl at her. "Aren't you supposed to be talking to the Master, right about now?" "I did, I did!" she chatters, ecstatically. "I told the manager I wanted ten pairs and they put me at the front of the line. "Ten pairs?" I stammer. She blushes. "Yeah, Jeffrey gave me his black AMEX." "He, what?!" I yell. "Um, we had a little setback," she says. "If you know what I mean..." "A prostitute setback?" I say, already knowing the answer. "Well, anyway," she rambles on, "I bought ten pairs and I got one for you."

She hands over the bag. "Mine are being sent home. Jeffrey will have a stroke, you know," and she smiles. "You have more balls than I realized, Lucy," I say to her, taking the bag. "They're your size and everything," she says, grinning. "Mr. Louboutin was really nice, by the way. He said to tell you he appreciates your ardor. He says he designs for tough women like you."

So this is the bottom line. Having PM and being cranky can do many things. It can get in your way. It can get your point across. For once in your life it can get you taken seriously. And sometimes, it can get you a really hot pair of "tough woman" shoes.